


One small flower

by partialresonance



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, But I don't really explain it, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt is very much in love with Jaskier but Jaskier doesn't know it, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, He just doesn't age okay it's fine, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29122146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialresonance/pseuds/partialresonance
Summary: When Jaskier starts coughing up flowers in the midst of torture, it's the least of his concerns. But after Geralt saves him and brings him to Kaer Morhen, he has questions for the bard. Jaskier struggles to conceal the cause of his illness, while Geralt does everything in his power to heal his friend, not knowing that the one thing he's decided he can never have is what will save Jaskier from a sorrowful end.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 284





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I needed to stop lurking and finally post some geraskier, so here's your typical Jaskier-tortured-by-Nilfgaard-for-information-about-Geralt-and-Ciri fic with a side of hanahaki disease!

When Jaskier spits out the first flower, it surprises the Nilfgaardian as much as it does him.

“What the fuck is that?” The man pulls back, wiping his bloody knuckles on his black-and-white gambeson. Jaskier starts to laugh, but it turns into another cough. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth and he thinks he can feel something working its way up his throat. He’s not thinking about whatever fresh horror this is; all he’s thinking about is how good it feels to see shock and disgust on the Nilfgaardian’s smug face.

“What, scared of a little flower, mate?”

Jaskier’s head rocks back with the next blow.

And admittedly, he should probably be more worried about it himself. But he can’t seem to muster up the energy to care too much about a measly little blossom lying amongst the blood he’d hacked up after yet another session with his latest torturer. If he wanted to worry, it would be about the sharp stabbing pains in his chest whenever he drew in a breath. If he wanted to worry, it would be about the fact that he hasn’t had anything to drink in almost two days. If he wanted to worry, it would be about the solidifying realization that he won’t leave this cell alive. 

What’s a flower here and there given his much bigger problems, even if he’s coughed it up from his lungs?

The Nilfgaardian leaves off for the day and Jaskier drags himself back to his corner, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his bound hands on his legs. He stares at the puddle of blood in the middle of the cell. It’s turning to mud as it soaks into the dirt floor, and he can’t see the flower from here. Maybe he’d imagined it; it’s getting harder to hold on to a coherent thought the longer he goes without water. He’s been through this before, though, and knows that tomorrow they will give him a cupful, just enough to keep him going.

Unless they’ve finally decided he’s better off dead.

Jaskier has to admit that he holds little value to the Nilfgaardian cause. They want to find Ciri, and to find Ciri they must find Geralt, but all they could get their hands on was his former barker. Jaskier had told them upfront he knew little of the White Wolf’s whereabouts, and of course they hadn’t wanted to believe him, not after the captain had gone to such trouble to hunt him down and gag him and throw him in the back of a cart and transport him to the nearest Nilfgaardian army camp. Jaskier assumes it was the nearest camp, that is, unless prisoner bunkers are not a standard feature and he was taken to a special location. But even that feels like too much effort to expend on his sorry self.

Now they just seem to be using him as a training tool. He sees a new soldier every day, and they all have various combinations of the same personality traits: eager and vicious, cruel and insecure and compensating for it with a shaky swagger. Jaskier figures they leave the cell with a newfound sense of accomplishment, a certain level of respect earned amongst their fellow soldiers. Well. At least his broken body is doing someone some bit of good, eh?

And Geralt isn’t coming for him, of course.

Why would he? He’d made his feelings clear on the mountain. He has his Child Surprise and Yennefer to occupy his concerns. And he doesn’t even know Jaskier is in this predicament, probably thinks Jaskier is still cavorting about the big cities, hopping between Oxenfurt and Novigrad, between the beds of a string of lovers. Jaskier is glad of it, now. That’s not a bad way to be remembered.

But that stupid niggling little hope had persisted far longer than he’d care to admit to. It’s gone, now, thank the gods. Jaskier tips his head back until it meets the cellar wall. He feels the urge to cough bubbling up in his chest and presses his lips together, swallowing even though it feels like scraping his dry throat with sandpaper. He won’t be able to fall asleep, despite his exhaustion. His discomfort is too great for that.

Jaskier stares at the wall, and eventually his mind slips into a trance-like state. It’s a way to pass the time, to disconnect from the brutal reality he’s been forced into, and it comes easier and easier the longer he spends locked up in this cell.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when shouting and the clang of swords rouses him. He thinks of the flower, and is convinced that it was a dream. Everything feels like a dream, now, especially when the guards playing a round of gwent outside his cell throw down their cards and leap to their feet, shouting as a blur of white tears through the cellar. Blood splashes the metal grating of his cell, and Jaskier blinks.

The guards are on the ground. Not moving. And the cell door is...opening?

Jaskier shuffles back until he’s pressed into the corner. 

“It’s a cruel dream,” he murmurs to himself, as none other than Geralt of Rivia steps through the door.

“Not a dream, bard.” And of course, Jaskier’s mind would conjure up a Geralt complete with Witcher-sensitive hearing, and that familiar gravelly voice that had made him weak in the knees when he’d first met the man at the tender age of eighteen. Had continued making him weak long after that, of course, and even now his arms and legs are shaking. Dream-Geralt tilts his head, those cat-eyes glinting in the low light of the cellar. “Can you stand?”

“That’s quite a question.” Jaskier’s voice is whisper-thin, the words slurring together. It’s quite like Geralt to come to him making demands, asking impossible things like  _ be quiet, go away, stand up.  _

“Hmm. We don’t have a lot of time here, Jaskier. Only one way out.” He nods at the ladder across the cellar that leads up to the trapdoor. “Could be overrun by Nilfgaardians any minute now.”

“Then you’d better go, I guess.” Jaskier hums and lets his eyes fall shut, head resting against the wall. “Thanks for stopping by. Though, before you go,” he peels his eyes open and looks at Geralt again, surprised to find that he’s still as solid as he’s ever been, “Do you have water?”

That seems to be a lot to ask of a dream, even one as solid as Geralt.

The next thing Jaskier knows, water is being poured into his mouth. He sputters a bit as his throat remembers how to swallow, but the way the cool liquid coats the inside of his mouth is pure heaven. He sighs when the mouth of the waterskin is finally pulled away, a dazed smile on his face.

“That was nice. Thank you.”

“C’mon.” Geralt tugs on his hands, pulling them far enough from Jaskier’s body so he can slice through them with the knife Jaskier had seen him use, in a previous life, to take trophies from dead monsters. He chuckles a little as the ropes fall away, sticking to his skin in a few places with clotted blood.

“Ow.”

Geralt hauls Jaskier to his feet, and Jaskier sways. He’s starting to think this might not be a dream, given how very substantial Geralt’s hand is as it lands on his shoulder to keep him upright. The pain flaring to life in his sides is probably also testament to the reality of the situation. Jaskier blinks and tries to fix Geralt with an investigatory stare, though he’s having trouble focusing and the other man’s face is a bit blurred.

“This is real?”

“Keep telling you that. Let’s go. You can walk.”

“You don’t know…” Jaskier takes an experimental step after Geralt, and his eyebrows go up. “Oh. I can.”

“Mhmm.” 

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something else, but then he’s coughing, bending over with the force of it and holding on to his ribs that feel like shards of glass cutting at his insides. There are tears in the corners of his eyes when he’s finished, blood coating the inside of his mouth and a strange taste in the back of his throat. Almost like he’d swallowed soap.

Of course, Geralt doesn’t let him catch his breath. He starts marching Jaskier across the cellar, crowding up behind him as he points Jaskier towards the ladder.

“Climb.”

“Better--” Jaskier coughs again as his hands grip the wooden rungs, “better off with the, bloody Nilfgaardians. You’re just as bad.”

“Shut up, bard.  _ Climb.” _

Jaskier nods, and starts pulling himself up. Now that he’s accepted that Geralt is truly, somehow, here, he knows the Witcher only wants to get them both out of the cellar before they’re swarmed by Nilfgaardians. It isn’t cruelty that drives his callousness, but Jaskier can’t help his needling little comments, the sort that had finally made Geralt snap after twenty years of putting up with Jaskier’s annoying presence. He’d lasted longer than anyone else in Jaskier’s life, there was at least that much to be said of Geralt of Rivia.

Jaskier reaches the top of the ladder by what he believes counts as a monumental effort worthy of ballads itself, and promptly collapses on the wooden floor. He barely has the strength to drag himself out of the way so Geralt can climb up the ladder after him. When he rolls over, he comes face to face with a dead Nilfgaardian, the corpse’s face waxy and pale, eyes staring. Jaskier laughs.

He’s still laughing when Geralt hauls him up again, slinging one of Jaskier’s arms around his shoulders when Jaskier threatens to go down.

“They’re dead.” He chuckles, even though it hurts, makes him want to cough again.

“Of course they fucking are!” Geralt growls, and then mutters, “They hurt you.”

“Huh.” The words sound strange coming from Geralt, too sentimental by far, but Jaskier isn’t about to start complaining. Not when it’s going to get him out of here, which--gods above, he’s getting out of here. It’s happening, it’s really happening--

“Fuck.” Geralt comes to an abrupt halt when he sees two Nilfgaardian soldiers at the door. Jaskier looks stupidly from them to Geralt, and when he looks back at them they’ve already raised their weapons. Jaskier prepares himself for whatever will happen next--maybe they’ll run him through, or Geralt will drop him to the floor as he goes for his steel sword--

But then Geralt raises a hand, makes the shape of a Sign that Jaskier remembers as if from a former life.

“Nothing to be alarmed about. We’re allowed to leave.”

The two men lower their weapons, looking as dazed and stupid as Jaskier feels. 

“Eh, yeah,” one says to the other, as they both nod. Geralt scoots past them, and Jaskier quells the urge to reach out and flick the closest one’s nose. “They’re ‘lowed t’leave.”

“Why don’t you just do that to everyone all the time?” Jaskier’s feet drag in the dirt as Geralt moves them along at a quick clip. 

“Don’t tell me how to Witcher,” Geralt grumbles, “and I won’t tell you how to bard.”

“So your grammar’s gotten worse since we most amicably parted ways.” Jaskier manages the last few syllables despite his growing disorientation and nausea, but then everything goes grey and warbly. The next thing he knows, he’s being shoved onto Roach, and Geralt is mounting up behind him.

Jaskier can imagine Geralt’s disgruntled look as he leans back against the Witcher’s broad, warm chest, but to be quite honest Jaskier doesn’t care. If Geralt is uncomfortable then he can just suck it up, because Jaskier has been through hell a dozen times over and it all started with the mountain and saving him from that cellar isn’t going to save Geralt from whatever revenge Jaskier--broken, tired, clinging-to-sanity Jaskier--is capable of exacting. And the first form that revenge will take is Jaskier sagging back, letting Geralt’s arms cage him, resting his head on Geralt’s bicep and promptly losing consciousness.

He’s aware, vaguely, that they are going through a portal when he feels the sizzle of magic on his skin. The tug of nausea in his stomach is hardly discernable from what he’s felt for so long being held in that cellar and so it doesn’t bother him, and he slips even further into a dark space between sleep and wakefulness. 

The next thing he knows is his lungs filling with cold, dry air. 

It immediately ignites an explosive cough tearing from deep within his chest. Nothing seems to satisfy the aching, searing itch in his lungs. He lurches to the side and feels Geralt’s arm holding him in place like a steel bar; he thinks he hears a vague “fuck” from somewhere behind him but his awareness is entirely caught up in the pain of coughing so violently with what must be shattered ribs. Jaskier feels something working its way up his throat and he doesn’t even remember what had happened in the cellar until he finally feels the wet lump in his mouth.

He leans over the saddle and spits it out.

Geralt pulls Roach to a halt.

Jaskier tips his head back, panting as he draws in fresh mountain air, blinking away tears until he can finally see the outline of jagged snowcapped peaks in the distance, the rocky path they’re traversing. Everything is quiet for a long moment but for his ragged breaths, a cloud of steam forming in front of his face as he exhales into the frigid air. When he manages to catch his breath he tilts his head to the side, enough to make out Geralt’s expression. The Witcher is looking down at the path, at the bloody lump Jaskier had drawn painfully up from deep within his chest, and those yellow eyes are piercing when they turn to him and Geralt asks,

“Jaskier. What the fuck is that?”


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt can smell flowers.

Now, to be entirely fair: Jaskier has  _ always  _ smelled like flowers, in some sense. Whether it is the jasmine and chamomile scent of his soaps and perfumes or that vague wildflower smell of his delight--strongest when he was performing at Cintra’s court, so strong Geralt had hardly been able to concentrate on what Calanthe was saying with the smell and taste of it filling his head--flowers are not anathema to Jaskier’s presence. But Geralt certainly hadn’t expected to encounter the scent  _ now.  _ Not after Jaskier had spent gods-know how long in a cell, not when he reeks of unwashed skin and close proximity to an open bucket, sour paranoia and cloying fear.

But the scent is unmistakable, and it’s coming from Jaskier. More disturbingly, it’s also coming from the blood Jaskier had spit onto the ground. And there, peeking out from the dark red puddle is a single bright sliver of pale purple--a petal, crumpled from its passage through Jaskier’s throat.

“Water,” Jaskier croaks, ignoring his question as he turns a petulant gaze on Geralt. “Please, Geralt.”

Geralt grunts, and helps Jaskier drink from his waterskin when his hands shake. It’s nearly empty now, but they’ll be at the gates of Kaer Morhen soon. Vesemir is there, as well as Yennefer, and one of them will know what to do.

He urges Roach forward and Jaskier leans back against him, probably too tired to be ashamed of the close proximity. Geralt’s hands tighten on the reins until the leather creaks. Jaskier’s body is warm and soft, his hair tickling Geralt’s neck. Quite without meaning to Geralt finds himself curling protectively around the bard, hunching down so that his nose is almost buried in that hair, arms tight around him, a bit tighter than they need to be just to keep Jaskier in the saddle.

It is exactly this feeling--this need to curl up with Jaskier inside, like Geralt’s body is a toughened carapace and Jaskier all the soft meaty parts of him that he’d thought had ceased to exist long ago--that had terrified Geralt and led to him driving Jaskier away. He can’t control it, this aching desire to just be  _ close  _ to the bard, and he’d thought Jaskier would be safer away from it given the trajectory of Geralt’s life--

But he’d been wrong, so wrong, and now they are here.  _ Jaskier  _ is here, and he’s hurting, and if Geralt had ever truly thought that Witchers did not possess emotions he was proven wrong the second he’d learned of Jaskier’s capture. 

Roach’s hooves clatter through loose pebbles on the rocky path. The upper parts of Kaer Morhen’s walls are already in sight, though as they thread their way closer along the mountain path sometimes the jagged outcrops obscure the keep, making it seem an illusory thing. But Geralt knows it’s there, knows it with a feeling deep in his bones when he approaches the place that had changed him, the only place that he is close to calling home.

Triss could have gotten them closer with her portal, but Geralt thinks she hadn’t wanted to risk a run-in with Yennefer, maybe feels bad that the dark-haired sorceress still hasn’t fully recovered from her feat at Sodden. There’s a complicated relationship there that Geralt simply doesn’t want to tangle with, not when he’s busy figuring out his own messy feelings when it comes to Ciri. When it comes to Jaskier.

Jaskier shifts in his arms, letting out a sigh. Geralt can hear the too-fast beat of his heart, the stilted rhythm of his breathing. It’s a struggle to focus on anything else. There is heat concentrated in places on Jaskier’s body where it shouldn’t be, inflammation around breaks and sprains, infection in the sores around his wrists. And still that odd smell of flowers mixed with the metallic tang of blood. Geralt frowns and clicks his tongue, and Roach picks up the pace.

Before long, the entrance to Kaer Morhen towers before them. Roach’s shoes clang against cobblestone, the sound sharp as it resounds off the keep’s towering walls, and Jaskier jerks upright with a little gasp. He must have been asleep, or something like it.

“Where are we? Geralt?”

“Kaer Morhen.” Roach knows the way, and makes straight for the stables, crossing the courtyard with its overgrown grass and weeds poking up between the stones of the retaining walls. “You’ll be safe here. Between Vesemir and Yen, we’ll get you patched up.”

“Don’t want to see her, thanks.” Jaskier’s head rolls, almost like he’s experimenting with control of his limbs but in the laziest way possible. A small cough bubbles up, and of course the bard tries to talk through it, his voice strained. “Got enough problems already.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. He doesn’t bother responding, because Jaskier doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Roach stops outside the stables and Geralt swings down, placing a hand on Jaskier’s hip when the bard leans to the side. He can hear two, maybe three other horses already in their stalls, and would be willing to bet that one of them is Scorpion. So Lambert and Eskel have already arrived.

Geralt is helping Jaskier dismount when he hears quiet footsteps approach. 

He can tell from the cadence that it’s Lambert, and doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder. It comes as a shock when Jaskier twists out of his hands--and just when Geralt was thinking that nothing could shock him after so many years on the Path. But for some reason Jaskier is trembling, his heartrate has spiked and Geralt feels a tug on his waist--

Jaskier has drawn his knife, the one Geralt uses to take trophies from dead monsters for proof he’d completed the contract. 

“Woah, hey--” Lambert’s tone is moderately surprised, with a trace of caustic amusement.

“Stay back!” Jaskier has angled himself half behind Geralt, holding the knife in front of him with his teeth bared. There’s blood in his mouth, smeared on his lower lip, and his eyes have a wild look to them Geralt has never seen before, the whites swallowing up his irises.

“Jaskier,” Geralt snaps. “Put that down. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Jaskier’s gaze swings to Geralt. His hand trembles around the knife.

“Are you--is this--”

He licks his lips, eyes flicking back to Lambert. His chest rises and falls rapidly.

“This is Lambert.” Geralt shoots a look at Lambert, who nods and holds up his empty hands, a nasty half-smile on his face. “He’s a piece of shit, but a good one. Another Witcher. Eskel is here too, and Vesemir.”

“Gonna hold us all at knifepoint, little bard?” Lambert’s voice is taunting, and Geralt growls. Lambert is enjoying this, of course.

“You know who I am.” Jaskier’s voice is thin with fear. He presses his lips together to hold back a cough. 

“Yeah, idiot. You think Geralt can keep anything from us?” Lambert crosses his arms and makes a ‘gimme’ gesture with one hand. “Now hand over the knife, kid. This is getting boring.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to respond, but then bends over as another hacking cough rips through him. Geralt plucks the knife easily from his hand, then puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, worried that he’ll lose his balance. The cough is concerning, even without the added worry about what, exactly, Jaskier is coughing  _ up. _

“Gross,” Lambert says, and walks over to take Roach’s reins. He leads the mare into the stables, throwing one last barb over his shoulder. “Keep him away from my room if he’s gonna cough like that all winter.”

“He’s charming,” Jaskier rasps, after taking a moment to get ahold of himself. He lets Geralt put an arm at his elbow and leans into it. Breathing deeply, cheeks flushed, eyes tired and with dark circles standing out against his pale skin--Geralt growls. He puts an arm around the bard’s back and starts marching him towards the keep.

“What happened back there?”

“I thought--I don’t know.” Jaskier shakes his head. “The Nilfgaardians had a mage. She made me see things.”

“Hmm.” It’s not really an answer, but Geralt supposes it tells him what he needs to know for now. They climb the short set of stairs to the main doors of the keep and Geralt pushes one open; it swings slowly, on hinges that likely need oiling, and they enter a darkened hallway. The torches are only lit at long intervals, conserving resources for a keep that lies mostly abandoned, only occupied by Vesemir during the warm months and only the four remaining Wolf Witchers during the winter. But it’s warm inside, and the darkness feels like a protective charm, concealing them within its fold. “You’ll meet Vesemir soon, Eskel later. They won’t hurt you either. Don’t touch my knife.”

Jaskier chuckles.

“I won’t.”

The keep is large, and Jaskier’s strength starts to flag before long. Geralt loops Jaskier’s arm around his shoulders, and soon he’s bearing nearly all of the bard’s weight. It’s reminiscent of that episode with the djinn, not least of which because Yennefer lies at the end of their journey to heal Jaskier--but there’s something different this time, something wholly unfamiliar stirring in Geralt’s stomach. 

“Geralt.” Vesemir’s grizzled voice calls out from a doorway as they round a corner, and Geralt jerks his head in greeting, both hands occupied with holding Jaskier up. “Bring him in here.”

The small room had served many purposes across the centuries; at the moment, it held a few cots, a long, low table made of dark wood, bookshelves and cabinets filled with multicolored flasks, chests lining the walls that held other supplies. Yennefer is sitting in a corner, raven hair tumbling over her shoulder and violet eyes glinting in the low torchlight. Geralt avoids her gaze. He takes Jaskier’s arm from around his shoulders, puts his hands on Jaskier’s waist and lifts him onto the table. It’s as easy as lifting a child; Jaskier has lost weight.

Jaskier sways forward, and Geralt places a bracing hand on his shoulder. His other hand is on Jaskier’s thigh.

He can feel the heat of Yennefer’s stare burning into his skull.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to say anything before Vesemir comes to his side and starts looking Jaskier over. He puts a hand under Jaskier’s chin, tilts his head up and instructs the bard to look at him. Jaskier blinks heavily; Geralt can feel the exhaustion radiating off of him. Can smell the wariness at being touched, being surrounded by people he doesn’t know. Before he can think about it Geralt squeezes the hand resting on Jaskier’s thigh; Jaskier’s eyes flutter, his shoulders relaxing just a touch.

Vesemir’s examination is quick, thorough. The old Witcher is the wisest man Geralt knows, and he’s relieved when Vesemir steps back and goes to calmly pull a few small flasks out of the cabinets. 

“Well,” the old man drawls, “considering where he’s been, he’s in remarkably good health. Dehydrated, of course. Malnourished. A little banged up.” There’s a smile hidden somewhere in Vesemir’s voice, and Geralt has to hope that his face isn’t as red as it feels. “It looks like we might not need your skills after all, Yennefer.”

The woman tsks, uncrosses her legs but doesn’t stand.

“Something isn’t right.” A black-gloved hand comes up to cup her chin. “There is an aura of magic around him.”

“Do you think he’s being tracked?” Geralt can’t keep the alarm from his voice. Ciri is somewhere upstairs. If Nilfgaard has placed some sort of magical beacon on Jaskier…

“I’ll go.” Jaskier speaks up, lifting his head. “I’m alright. I’ll be alright.” His laugh is dry, humorless. “Can’t imagine they’ll be happy to find me alone, again. But. Fuck ‘em.”

His head falls forward onto Geralt’s shoulder. He lets out a sigh.

“Oh, do shut up.” Yennefer stands then, striding towards the table. She comes up behind Jaskier and Geralt can feel Jaskier shiver. “That’s not it. And my wards are strong enough to counteract a paltry little tracking spell. No, this is something else.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Vesemir’s voice is calm, soothing in its steady strength, “It can wait until the boy’s feeling better.” He returns to the table, holding out a small green flask to Geralt. “Give him this. It will give him the strength to recover, heal any internal injuries I might have missed. Then he just needs plenty of food and water and rest.”

Geralt takes the flask, nodding his thanks. It’s a relief to hear it from Vesemir, that Jaskier is going to be okay. Jaskier is shifting against him and Geralt’s hand automatically goes to his upper back; he can feel Jaskier’s chest jumping, and realizes belatedly that it’s because he’s suppressing a cough.

“Geralt,” Jaskier manages, just before a cough explodes out of him. He curls forward, and the series of coughs are horribly wet and obviously painful. That sharp floral scent is back, mingling with the tang of blood, and Geralt’s nose wrinkles. Jaskier swallows. He’s breathing heavily, body limp. When Geralt shifts to look down at his face, he sees specks of blood on Jaskier’s lower lip.

There’s silence in the room. Just Jaskier, breathing unsteadily, and Geralt’s heart beating furiously, blood pounding in his ears. He’s furious, suddenly, though he doesn’t know why, and he has to grip the table with one hand to avoid bruising Jaskier with his death grip.

“Well,” Vesemir says at last, “That doesn’t sound good.”

Yennefer snorts.

Before Geralt can do anything about it, Yennefer’s hand darts out. She’s holding a small, white handkerchief, and swipes it along Jaskier’s lip. Jaskier jerks back, eyes going wide with a blank, animal fear.

Yennefer folds the handkerchief so the small spot of Jaskier’s blood is concealed, and holds it tight in her fist.

“I’ll let you know what I discover,” she says, then sweeps out of the room, leaving behind the fading rustle of her skirts and the overly-sweet berry scent of her perfume. 

Geralt almost calls after her, to tell her what he’d seen--

The wrinkled little blossom, lying in a puddle of blood on the rocky path--

But then holds his tongue. All of a sudden, he isn’t even sure of what he’d seen. It makes no sense, after all. And Geralt could have imagined it. It’s terribly hard to concentrate, for some reason, with Jaskier leaning against him like this, like he had in Roach’s saddle. Geralt is distracted by every shift, every inhale, every inch of skin he can feel warm beneath Jaskier’s clothes. He can feel the bard tense up when Vesemir steps closer.

Geralt holds out a hand for the flask, raising his eyebrows. Vesemir seems to get the hint and hands it over without coming any closer; still, Jaskier begins to shake, pressing his face into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Jaskier. It’s alright.”

He can hear Vesemir rummaging through the cabinets again.

“Geralt, don’t let them--”

Jaskier clutches at his arm.

“I can’t take anymore,” he mumbles. Then his voice pitches up. “Not again, gods! Not again!”

“Here,” Vesemir presses another small vial into Geralt’s hand, while Jaskier shrinks away. Vesemir’s gaze is sympathetic, his voice quick and low. “After the first. To help him sleep. He can stay here for now.” Vesemir indicates the cots in the back of the room.

Geralt shoots him a grateful look, bereft of words as Jaskier descends into senseless mutterings and tremors. Vesemir nods and quickly takes his leave, shutting the door gently behind him.

“Jaskier.” Geralt unstoppers the first flask, then cups the back of Jaskier’s head. His fingers slide through the curls, matted with sweat and dirt. “It’s just me now, alright? You’re safe.”

Jaskier eyes the flask, darting his gaze up to Geralt. His expression shatters something inside of Geralt, the shards cutting at him. Jaskier’s eyebrows are drawn together in a plea, distrust warring with hope across his features. 

“This will help you.” Geralt tries to make his voice as soothing as possible, isn’t sure that he succeeded. But in the end Jaskier nods, taking the flask with trembling fingers that ignite an odd spark in Geralt as they brush against his hand. He upends the flask, throat convulsing in a painful swallow, then drops his hand. The flask clatters to the table.

“Good.” Geralt’s fingers twitch in Jaskier’s hair. He wants to stroke him, but squashes the urge. It’s not...right, is it? His desire to pet Jaskier like he’s some kind of animal. Or like he’s--

Jaskier shrugs, eyes sliding shut.

“I’m fucked either way,” he says, and Geralt frowns. No idea what that means. He hands Jaskier the small vial next. The liquid inside is clear, barely more than a few drops.

“This is to help you sleep, if you want it.” Jaskier looks less panicked than before, though Geralt isn’t certain he likes the tired resignation in his eyes any better. Jaskier already looks woozy before he lifts the vial to his lips and tosses back his head. He tries to get down from the table but his movements are clumsy, and anyway Geralt is still boxing him in--a fact which brings renewed heat to Geralt’s face, embarrassment flushing him as he steps back. Jaskier’s knees buckle as soon as he slides off the table; Geralt catches him, hauls him upright, helps him stagger over to a cot.

He doesn’t expect much out of Jaskier. He’s looking dazed, incomprehensive. He sits on the bed and lets Geralt kneel on the ground before him and work his feet free of his boots, doing no more than blinking owlishly. Geralt tosses the boots at the foot of the bed and then gestures for Jaskier to lay down; he pulls a blanket over him, the motions unthinking, simply something that needs doing and Geralt is the only one around to do it so of course he’s going to help Jaskier, who doesn’t deserve this, who is only hurt because he had the misfortune of knowing Geralt.

But when he straightens, he finds Jaskier looking up at him. 

“I want this to be real,” he whispers, eyes sliding shut. Geralt’s throat feels tight.

“It is.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier’s voice is slurred with sleep. “You’ve never been this nice to me before.”

“I know.” Geralt sits heavily on the cot beside Jaskier’s. A wave of exhaustion overcomes him, like Jaskier’s words had drained him. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier doesn’t respond. His breaths come slower, deepening as he drifts into sleep. 

Geralt lets his hands hang between his knees. He considers meditating, then puts it off for a while in favor of making plans for when Jaskier wakes. He’ll soon go down to the storerooms, grab some food--there will be hard cheeses, dried meat. Bread left over from Ciri’s baking experiment. Fresh fruit brought by Yen. Jaskier will sleep, he’ll eat and drink and he’ll  _ heal.  _ Yennefer will fix whatever is causing his cough and then--

Well. Then Jaskier can decide what he wants to do, though Geralt can’t imagine it’s anything other than getting as far away from Geralt as he can, as soon as he can.

Geralt has to grip his knee to keep his hand from reaching for Jaskier’s hair. A greasy lock has fallen across his forehead, and Geralt doesn’t want to move it back, because that’s absurd. A gesture like that--

It’s not for people like him, to want things like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slides in under the wire with a Valentine's Day update*
> 
> Also, best admit now that I actually have no idea how many chapters there will be. Likely less than ten. Hope you enjoy, leave a comment to let me know if you're so inclined! :)


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